


Book Ends

by returntosaturn



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:19:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returntosaturn/pseuds/returntosaturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events following this last cool week of April were mostly bad, and therefore he would’ve liked to chalk it all up to accident that he’d signed Annabelle Rose as a tenant in the afore vacant shop on Spinner’s Street. But of course, it wasn’t. Still it was easier to pretend. After all, magic and love, both, were pretend. (Rumbelle, slight AU, where no one yet realizes they are from Fairy Tale Land except the Evil Queen, and Belle is not kept in the hospital; pre-Henry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Copperfield & Twist

It could’ve been chance, their story. And he would’ve liked to think it so. On the other hand, it was a certain that there were no accidents. Everything was intentional, a choice dependent on the chooser’s most emphatic need, good or bad. The events following this last cool week of April were mostly bad, and therefore he would’ve liked to chalk it all up to accident that he’d signed Annabelle Rose as a tenant in the afore vacant shop on Spinner’s Street. But of course, it wasn’t. Still it was easier to pretend. 

After all, magic and love, both, were pretend.

His cane stubbed stiffly against the stone floor of her shop, uncovered by any rug or carpet. On the rightmost wall were painted swirling flowers, and a mural of stories he’d decipher later, but that imitated stained glass. A strange place this was, yet wondrous all at once. 

She’d painted the place herself, her request begrudgingly granted. He’d hated the idea, but secretly wondered at what she might create.

He wondered how long it had taken her to procure all the books—several shelves lined the back walls, tall but uneven in height, stacked to bowing with volumes upon volumes. Up the narrow wooden staircase at the corner of the shop was an entire library. A small one, but certainly large enough that any lover of books would be challenged to plough through every page. Behind the little counter, she served coffee and tea and the like. Quite a unique shop, and a quiet place for anyone who desired a read. Time to themselves. Time to ponder or escape.

He needed escape, often. But not of the particular kind Miss Rose provided.

The miss herself sat behind her marble counter, on a bar stool she’d tugged behind there, her nose between the yellowed pages of Emma. She was the queen in her own world, behind a barrier, untouchable and regal. That didn’t stop him from clearing his throat to gain her attention.

She jumped at first, lips curling into an embarrassed and polite smile, dog-earing her book and placing it aside.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t hear you come in.” 

Her voice was like a low whisper of wind in his ears. It reminded him of some far off place that would’ve contained wonder beyond imagining. He brushed off the thought quickly.

“Yes, well you should be more attentive if you’re wanting to attract customers, don’t you think?” He gestured with the gold handle of his cane to the empty coffee shop seats.

Her smile dissolved like warm snow. “I…apologize, Mr. Gold. What can I do for you today?”

“I’m here to collect the rent.”

He twirled his cane between his fingers casually.

She paused. “It’s not the first of the month, Mr. Gold. And I’ve already…”

“The twenty-ninth, I know,” he interrupted. “I’m only taking precaution on a new tenant, you understand. After all, I’ve yet to really trust you yet, Miss…Rose.” He said her name slow, like it was painful, but it was actually delightful and he desired the syllables to last longer on his tongue. 

She looked flustered and frustrated all at once. She looked delightful, her sweet resolve momentarily broken. She combed a brunette corkscrew curl behind her ear. She huffed before speaking. “I haven’t even brought my check book this morning.”

He huffed back. “And this does not facilitate any trust between us, now does it? What a predicament.” He tisked his tongue a few times, just to watch the heat in her eyes.

“I…I’m sorry, Mr. Gold. I don’t know what to say except to ask you to come back tomorrow afternoon…I…”

He held a hand up. “Of course, Miss Rose. I do understand. While I’m here, however, I’d like to order a cup of coffee, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“None at all,” she replied, sliding from her barstool. Before her face was partially concealed behind her espresso machine, Mr. Gold spotted the hintings of amusement on her features. He didn’t bother to think on it.

She slid the cup to him once she’d popped the lid on, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth in a gesture he couldn’t quite read. “There you are,” she said softly. “Will that be all, Mr. Gold?”

He made a grand gesture of inspecting the cup, before nodding curtly. “I believe so, Miss Rose, thank you.”

He turned, poised to lean his weight against the cane when she spoke.

“Please call me Annabelle…”

He glanced over one shoulder.

She was grinning sweetly. That beautiful smile that had already charmed half of Storybrooke as if it were pure magic itself.  
He nodded dryly, turning forward again, shambling out of the shop only as fast as he could go. She had a strange way, this Annabelle. This Rose girl. Whatever she desired to be called. 

She’d appeared at his office only a few months ago. And in only a month she’d transformed the simple box of an empty shop into a veritable wonderland. He might even say that in these few months her pretty smile and dainty ways had charmed him. But he certainly would never say it aloud. She was pretty. Any fool could see it, so he certainly wasn’t the only one who thought it. He wouldn’t let her magic swoon him. Just yet anyways.

-O-O-O-

She did not consider it misfortune to have Mr. Gold as a landlord. For that would’ve meant that practically all of Storybrooke was misfortunate. It was quite a hassle, however, having him as a landlord for her apartment and her shop both. But then, she wasn’t the only one. Ruby, the waitress at the diner down the street, and her grandmother must’ve had it quite worse: with Mr. Gold being owner of the diner, their hotel, and their own small apartment above.

As a new tenant, there were many things she wanted to refashion about the quaint apartment only just down the block from her shop. The plumbing was half bad, and the paint on the walls was all bad: a ghastly boring grey color. She’d begun painting the living room only days after she finally settled everything at her shop, and was still in the process of doing so. She’d chosen a quiet, yet bright color. The color of melted butter. Her bedroom would be a soft blue, trimmed in cream. She thought it looked quite nice together, but it had been difficult to tack Mr. Gold down on a day that the plumber would arrive to fix the dripping pipes.

Additionally, the furniture store was still in the process of delivering new furniture—both here, and at her shop. The polite old man with the strange Italian accent was very kind, and even assisted her in assembling some of the pieces. Though when young kids visited the shop while he worked, Annabelle noticed a particular sadness in his eyes. Mostly everyone in Storybrooke seemed to be kindly; except the mayor, a staunch, sly looking woman. Annabelle had become fast friends with Ruby from the diner, and had met the mild mannered school teacher twice or so. Other citizens thought she was a bit strange, always consumed in stories and lands far away. It seemed everyone here was quite married to staying and anchored in their own lives; no body seemed to dream bigger or wish for anything else. Annabelle thought it odd that they would seek nothing else but a quiet little life. But then, here she was. Her own travelings had ceased for a bit, and she had decided to open the little shop here to possibly spark an interest in someone else.

She’d seen France, the birth country of her mother. She’d spent months there with artists of different types and incomes. It was quite the adventure, working to sell painting on the street some days, and helping to procure art for large museums the next. She’d seen England, and the hills of Scotland, the slums and palaces of India. It was exactly the beautiful world she’d read about, and more. She’d decided to settle down for awhile and develop a new dream.

Here in Storybrooke, hopefully the dream would become reality. 

She slid the paint roller back into its place on the tray, soaking up more of the liquid butter color. It was a strange mix to half the room painted a sunny yellow, and the other the drab grey. The small apartment had once been Mr. Gold’s, when he had still only held ownership of the loft apartments. Once his interests grew, he moved to the mansion at the edge of town. She’d never seen it, but Ruby told her it looked terribly menacing and altogether a lonely place.

She didn’t think much of Mr. Gold. He was ruthless, she’d heard, and certainly hungry for his money. But what a lonely existence that must be. Annabelle never put much stock into cash. The world was bigger than that. After experiencing the thrill of travel, and the solace of a good book, nothing else was too attractive.

She sighed and surveyed her work, finished for the evening. She stood, brushing herself off and grimacing at a yellow stain on her black sweatpants. No matter. She wouldn’t harp on it. 

Once dinner was made and the final chapter of Emma begun, Annabelle truly relaxed into the new sofa she’d purchased, sated from the pride of a day’s work.

She alternated taking bites and reading passages, until finally she finished her dinner. Then she slumped into a resting position on the couch, propping the book sideways. Eventually, the rhythms of reading lulled her to sleep. Before drifting, she envisioned the shaggy haired man with his cane as the Mr. Knightley from her novel, the heroine Emma smiling up at him. Before she could dwell consciously on it for even a second, she recognized her own curly brunette hair and her own kind smile in a strange image mirrored back to her.


	2. Chip

Annabelle turned when the door opened, letting in a bit of the warm breeze outside flow into the cool shop. A young boy stood there, no older than six, with a shock of black curls and youthful eyes. He sauntered to the counter like he owned the place, the undone laces of his right shoe slinking along the floor as he did so.

“Well hello, sir,” she greeted him cheerily, holding back a giggle.

He peered just over the counter, on tip toe. “Hi. Do you have any candy?” he asked, giving a hopeful grin. His teeth were gapped in front and one below missing, a charming characteristic of innocence. 

Annabelle laughed, leaning forward across the counter to come closer to his level. “I’m sorry. I haven’t. I’ve got chocolate chip cookies,” she offered. “How does that sound?”

He still seemed unsure, glancing downward in a boyish way. “Got any milk?” He finally decided.

She laughed again. “Yes, I do. Cookies and milk coming right up for you, sir…Well, you haven’t told me your name!” She leaned backwards, crossing her arms over her chest playfully feigning offense. 

“Chip,” he answered, showing his little teeth again, as if the name were something proud to wear. 

“Alright, Mister Chip.” She prepared a plate of cookies, adding an extra or two and a tall glass of fresh milk. While she filled his cup, he perused the shop.

“Hey, you like to read?” he said, gazing up at her tall bookcases, dwarfed by their size. 

“I do,” she answered, screwing the cap back onto the milk jug. “I wish more people did.”

“I wish I knew how,” he said, not sadly but offhandedly. He plucked the thick book titled Les Miserables from the shelf and gazed at the image of a girl printed on the cover. 

“You don’t know how to read? Oh, well, I could teach you,” she said. She wasn’t exactly sure where she’d find the time to follow through on the promise, or even if she could. But the boy was so charming and curious that it sounded right.

“You would?!” He clung close by her while she brought his cookies and milk to a table, still holding the book.

“We could start now,” she said. “But maybe with something a little easier.” She gently took the novel from him, smiling at the cover. “This is a wonderful story, but maybe something different, hm?”

Chip nodded, wiping away his milk mustache.

“The first step to learning how to be a good reader is to know what kinds of things you want to read. What sorts of stories do you like?”

“I like sword fights. And princes and stuff like that. Not too many princesses,” he said, his mouth twisting in a grimace that made Annabelle laugh again. “And magic!” he added as an afterthought.

She turned back to the shelves, humming as she searched. “I know,” she said. She pulled a hardback book from the middle, letting another book slide forward to fill the empty space it left. “How about this? Its called King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.”

“Sounds pretty cool,” Chip answered, allowing Annabelle to sit at the table with him. “Is King Arthur a good guy?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to ruin the story, now would I? Now, I’ll read to you today, and if you like it, we can continue it when you visit another day, alright?”

“Okay.”

Annabelle cracked the book open and began. 

-O-O-O-

The tiny bell above the door jingled, catching the man’s attention. Hardly anyone entered his shop after three o’clock, especially on a Friday. In fact, few ever entered unless they desired his help in some matter beyond the scope of normal business. 

And of course here she was. As he expected. The mayor Regina.

“Well hello your majesty,” he said dryly, not bothering to look away from the clock he was repairing.

“I’m here for a favor,” she said, flattening her palms against the glass surface between them.

“I wouldn’t have assumed otherwise,” he answered, finally looking up to meet her steel eyes.

He couldn’t specifically remember any instance that made him dislike this woman. In fact, he knew her to be a decent trustee of the town since he’d lived here…which was as long as he could remember. But he’d never particularly enjoyed being in her presence, and something far away in the back of his mind told him the intuition was right.

“How can I help you?” he queried passively.

“It’s a sensitive subject, I’m afraid. I’ve been thinking for quite awhile about something…and…well I’ve come to a conclusion.” She moved her hands from the counter to twine them agitatedly before her. She actually seemed uneasy, an emotion he’d never seen the woman carry before. “I’ve decided that I would quite like to have a child.”

His eyes widened in interest and he let himself lean back onto his heels. “Oh?”

The mayor still stared at her crimson painted fingernails, twisting them idly. “I came to ask you assistance.”

Mr. Gold tipped his head forward, eyebrows raised, a gesture that silently asked if she could really be serious.

Her expression changed. “Don’t be disgusting,” she snarled, glaring. “I’m adopting.”

“Ah, and I could help…how?”

“I’ll need your help…well…” She waved a hand. “Getting through the red tape.”

“I see. You want me to locate a child for you? And what makes you think I’ve got the connections to do that?”

The bell above the door jingled again, signaling a visitor and an extra ear to their certainly private conversation.

Annabelle was there in the doorway, clasping her hands in front of her, smiling reservedly. Today she wore a cornflower blue dress and a lacey looking cardigan, cinched at her waist with a belt. Her hair was down around in her face in brunette curls, slightly frizzed from the breeze. “Hello,” she said, glancing about the shop as she took a few steps further inside. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, glancing toward the mayor’s scowling face.

“Miss Rose, how may I assist you this afternoon?” He didn’t sound at all surprised or impressed to see her, or upset at having a moment of freedom from the mayor’s pressings. He stepped around the counter to meet her, swaying practiced on his cane.

“I only came to see if you had any…books? I’m always hunting for antique ones, or first editions.” She ran a slender hand along the glass of one case, glancing briefly down at the treasures there.

“Books are rare objects around my shop, I’m afraid. There’s only a small shelf there.” He pointed the shelf on the adjacent wall. 

She smiled in thanks, venturing for the corner he directed her to. Satisfied that the girl was not intruding, and speaking softly, Miss Mills began again. 

“I thought you could locate a proper agency for me. Make the process quicker. I’d go with you to Massachusetts to meet the child, sign paperwork, pick him or her up and bring them here, of course. They wouldn’t release the child to you without the legal guardian present. Or at least no proper agency would.”

“I could research the subject,” he said. “But I’ll have a price.”

“What is it?”

He smirked and tipped his head sideways just a second or two in consideration. “Let’s just make a rain check of it.”

Seemingly dissatisfied, the mayor’s lips curled. But she agreed. “Fine. I’ll be in next week for any information you’ve gathered.”

She turned for the door without a farewell. 

Once the door shut behind her, Mr. Gold waited until the blind on the window had settled still back into place. He glared at the fuzzy cloud of her shadow passing along the street, until out of sight.

Miss Rose had all but been forgotten, quiet in the back corner of his shop. 

When he found her, he caught her fingers running along the spine of an ancient copy of Jane Eyre, a dream like smile on her lips as she traced the gold banding. Already, she had the thick tome of Shakespeare’s works clutched to her chest, along with a sad and battered copy of Treasure Island. 

“Erm…” he began. “That was printed in first decade of the 1900s, I believe.”

“Oh.” She laughed lightly, tossing that distracted smile his way. “No, thank you. I’ve got about three copies over of that one. The first one lost its cover, I’m afraid,” she explained, but her voice trailed off again when she glanced back to his small collection, still lost in delight of worlds he couldn’t see.

“Have you ever read any of the Grimm fairy tales? They’re ghastly!” She didn’t look at him as she spoke, but still skimmed the titles, glaring at the bookshelf as if it had offended. “But thrilling at the same time, I suppose. So strange and mysterious, and well…I always get so drawn into characters. What they really must’ve thought, if they were real of course, and I’m sure it would’ve been…” Her speech sped up as she spoke, building excitement and awe, but then she stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She laughed softly again, embarrassed. “I do get a little too excited about…books.” She almost seemed ashamed of her admission, but Mr. Gold shook his head.

“Don’t be, Miss Rose,” was all he said.

“Its just that…I think sometimes people think I’m strange for babbling on about things that aren’t real.”

“Who says it isn’t real? Just because the stories exist only on pages doesn’t make them any less real.”

She paused, and looked at him full on this time. He’d captured her attention; captured the gaze of those brilliant blue eyes. She seemed to be considering something about him. Searching for something. For an instant, he felt as if he’d met this creature before. He swore he knew the bow of her red lips, the line of her dainty nose. He knew every expression in those eyes like they were his own. But just as quickly as it had come, it vanished like smoke.

She only smiled. “You’re right,” she agreed, and then broke the spell with a laugh. “Well…I’ll take these two then.” She handed the books to him. He was careful with the tattered cover of Treasure Island. 

He led her to the counter, and packed the books in a handled brown paper bag. She paid, and transaction was done. When he handed her the change, she shifted.

“Do you…do you like hamburgers?” She seemed immediately embarrassed, and waved her hand to erase her suggestion. “I’m sorry. Forget it. I wasn’t trying to…” she backpedaled. 

“I do,” he said softly. “But I could make you a better deal.”

The blush didn’t fade from her cheeks, and she waited silently for him to continue.

“A proper lady should be treated to a proper afternoon tea. If you’d join me one afternoon, I wouldn’t be unhappy.”

A smile blossomed on her face and she glanced down at her bag gripped between her hands. “Sure.” She stepped away from the counter, giving a demure wave. He returned the gesture.

He watched her leave, the wide smile not fading away from those rose colored lips.


	3. Spinning Wheel

“No, the child isn’t mine. I’m not the legal guardian, only gathering information for a…colleague,” Mr. Gold explained into his cell phone’s receiver. “Yes, I see. Well, the price would be quite decent, I assure you. I’ve no worries with money.”

The voice on the other end sighed heavily into the phone, before speaking again, describing the broken hearts the current guardians of the child might have with being told they would not be able to adopt the boy.

“I assumed my monetary offer to break the deal was substantial enough to illustrate that I have little care for broken hearts. Now, I’m making you quite the deal here. I expect you’ll accept it without…Yes, yes. “

The bell above his pawnshop door jingled, and Annabelle stepped in holding a paper sack in her fist.

“I do hope you’ll consider the offer,” Mr. Gold said quickly into the phone. “I’ll contact you again tomorrow.” He snapped the device shut, slipping it into his trouser pocket.

Annabelle ducked her head. “Sorry I interrupted.”

“No matter.” He gave a smile. This seemed to be the only moments he did smile, when Annabelle was near. The joy that followed her was contagious, even to an old miser. Even though it came easy, it still felt strange and foreign in the air of the gloomy shop. “Just a deal for a piece of art for the shop.”

He had to lie. He couldn’t have helped it.

She nodded. “I was heading home from work, and I had a few scones left over from this afternoon. I was wondering if you’d like one. Blueberry.” She set the sack on the counter between them.

“Blueberry happens to be my favorite,” he answered. She grinned.

Her hands unrolled the top of the bag, reaching in to retrieve two halves of a broken scone. “Bother. It’s broken.” 

He hadn’t noticed her speak for a moment, too focused on the simple perfection of her petite hands and unpainted fingernails. 

“No matter. I expect it’ll taste fine just the same,” he managed.

No one had ever, ever offered to do a favor for Mr. Gold, even something as miniscule as this. He couldn’t even remember a single gift he’d received in his lifetime. And never one as simple and yet so special as her broken scone.

She prepared the pieces on two napkins, passing him his bit.

They enjoyed the pieces in comfortable silence, still separated with the counter between them. Annabelle rested hers upon a napkin before her, looking at him straight on.

“You know, I’ve only just realized I took your offer of tea and I don’t even know your name.”

He looked away, down at the golden brown pastry. No one ever asked him. The citizens of Storybrooke had always called him by his surname. It was just how it had always been. The word was lost somewhere, even in his own mind, unfit and not his own. 

Even on lease agreements and contracts he had not written his full name. It had never been questioned, because there was never such litigation in this tiny town.

It occurred to him before he spoke how intimate it felt to tell her this single thing. And how lonely that must’ve meant he was.

“Callum,” he finally said.

“There. Now we aren’t so much strangers anymore, are we?” she said, licking icing from her fingertip.

He choked out a smile.

-O-O-O-

Tea. Tea in ten minutes. Tea in ten minutes and he just couldn’t get it right. He arranged the scones on their little gold tray, and arranged them again. Unsatisfied but at a loss, he gave up to stare out the back windows of his house, leaning upon his cane. No one had ever visited his house before. Her intrusion on his little world had made him more anxious than he’d ever thought he possibly could be.

Would she think the house was well kept? He was decent housekeeper, but the house was all too dark. Nothing was particularly dirty, just cold and unlived-in. He’d piled old frames and various antiques into the closets, but he was afraid the house still looked terribly cluttered with trinkets and too dank and lonely too long for this girl to bring her light to it.

He didn’t even have time to fret over the dying grass in the backyard, for the doorbell sounded through the house, breaking his reverie. He limped through the foyer, pulling open the door for the beauty on the other side. She wore a pretty yellow sundress with diagonally slanting dark green stripes. Her hair was pinned up in a loose bun that still managed to look clean and kept. He smiled at her and her brief salutation of ‘hey.’

He led her inside, the anxiety of having another presence in his home kicking back in.

He had to pause after he’d shut the door, both hands clasped over the handle of his cane. She was surveying the exposed oak beams of the ceiling, taking in the treasures the home displayed.

“Is this…strange?” he managed.

She glanced over to him, seemingly puzzled. “No. I don’t think so. Why would it be?”

“Well…” His hand fluttered up and downward again. “I’m your landlord…In fact, I’m everyone’s landlord, and I had an afterthought that this might be odd…Having you here.”

“You mean…having a tenant as a girlfriend?” She smiled coquettishly. It made him clear his throat.

She laughed. “I’m not bothered by it if you aren’t,” she said, approaching a tall windowed cabinet to peek at the baubles inside. “And I wasn’t assuming anything of you either,” she said as an amendment to the label she’d blurted out.

“No, of course,” he said. “Tea is in the sitting room.”

She followed his lead, and thanked him when he pulled out her chair. “You really didn’t have to do all this,” she said, gazing at the array of scones, jam, cream, and cucumber sandwiches. “Honestly.”

“Oh, you think this is special? I always have tea this elaborately unplanned,” he joked and she smiled while he poured their tea. 

-O-O-O-

Their brief lunch was quiet and calm, and Mr. Gold was glad of it. He suspected neither of them had too much patience for those who chatter on about nothing to fill the void in the air. Silence was to be appreciated, sometimes.

“Your house is lovely. When was it built?” she asked while he showed her around.

“I’m not quite certain,” he said. 

“You’ve got so many pieces…Where do they all come from?”

“Here and there,” he answered.

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Oh…I’ve never given much thought to it. I suppose the artwork is my favorite to procure. Remembering far off places and time.” The reply was vague.

“Like books,” she added, and he nodded with a smile.

“I do appreciate you inviting me,” she said, choosing to pause in the hallway upstairs, just shy of an open doorway to the room where a dusty upright piano stood flanked by a useless spinning wheel near the window sill.

“Not at all, Annabelle.” It was the first time he’d ever used her first name.

She smiled bashfully to the floor, as he noted was often her custom.

“What’s here?” she asked, peeking into the long untouched room. He followed her inside.

“Oh. I acquired that piano long ago. The spinning wheel belonged to my grandmother.”

“Do you know how it works?” She gave the large wheel a push. Nothing else on the medieval machine moved, since the bands had long been gone. He couldn’t even remember when the thing had been in proper working condition. 

“No. I couldn’t even begin to tell you the science behind it, honestly.” 

Annabelle laughed. “Do you play?” She looked to the aging piano.

“Oh. No.” 

She turned to look at him again. The spring light from the window cast a glow on her skin, the stray curls fallen from her bun backlit breathtakingly. She stared again, the same way she’d done in the pawn shop. As if she knew everything about him. As if she, by a stare, could propel him into all knowledge of this life and the next. To the fulfillment of dreams he’d forgotten. To the discovery of why he always felt not quite right. Not completely at home and like there was an entire portion of a world he’d forgotten. 

“You’ve got so many treasures, Mr. Gold,” she said. The way she spoke the words moved his heart several centimeters forward in his chest. She knew he was lonely and incomplete. She saw the incredible weight that pressed his mind and his heart every night when he sat at home by himself. Even though he tried to hide it, the beauty was hard to fool. Without needing to speak further, he knew from the look in her eyes that she didn’t pity him. Hadn’t meant to gauge him. But believed, within those navy colored eyes, that there was a different man than the one he revealed. 

And she could’ve been right.

Could’ve been. If the present wasn’t contrary.

The corner of her mouth jerked upwards. “Well, I’ve had a wonderful afternoon. Now you’ll have to take my offer for cheese burgers.”

“You still want to...?” he started.

“I’d like to, yes,” she answered. She leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

-O-O-O-

“You went to his house? I’m sorry, just being honest here, but I wouldn’t touch that guy with a ten foot pole.”

Annabelle gave Ruby a look, her eyebrow arched. “He’s not as horrible as everyone’s made him out to be. I was a bit intimidated, too, when I first met him, but he’s kind. And he means well.”

“Kind? Means well? We’re talking about the guy that comes a week early for rent, right?” Ruby set the pitcher down on the counter after filling her friend’s iced tea glass.

“If you’ve got a thing for Mr. Gold, that’s your business. Just saying you should probably keep it undercover. And I’m not sure if that was an innuendo or not. Ew, I’m grossing myself out now…” Ruby rested her hip against the counter, earning a swat from Granny with the corner of a dishtowel.

Annabelle laughed and pressed a plastic lid to her cup. “Wine tonight? You bring the cheese?”

“I brought the cheese last time,” the girl sighed, pressing a hand to her hip.

“Oh, fine. But don’t bring that disgusting flavored vodka this time. You’re not getting me drunk and toting me off to the Rabbit Hole again,” Annabelle warned, throwing her friend the look again.

“We’ll see,” the waitress challenged and sashayed off to help Billy fill an order for the mechanics’ shop.

Annabelle turned for the door of the diner, iced tea in hand. She jumped backwards when the door sprang open before she could reach for the handle herself. The mayor’s dark eyes stared her down, almost challengingly. 

“Oh, excuse me Madame Mayor,” she said politely.

“Oh, Miss Rose,” Regina’s expression changed, her eyes brightening. “How nice to see you.”

Annabelle was taken aback for a second or two. 

“Yes. You as well. Have a wonderful morning,” she said. 

She edged around the woman for the door, but Regina stopped her once more. “Dear. Do take an apple. From my garden.”

In her palm, she held a fat rounded fruit out to the brunette. It looked nearly too ripe to be real. Annabelle reached for it and nodded her thanks. Not giving it another thought, she made for the shop to begin her weekly appointment with Chip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I had some difficulty coming up with a name for Mr. Gold. It certainly doesn’t seem right for Belle—or rather, Annabelle—to call him Mr. Gold for the duration of the story. Nor does he yet know he’s Rumpelstiltskin, and can I be honest that I can’t stand it when he’s called Rumple. Ok, ridiculous. Rumpelstiltskin is such a strange, mysterious moniker with deviousness written all over it, even more so by Carlyle’s performance. It just really really strange to call him that in everyday life in Storybrooke. Rum is fine. But I digress. That’s another subject. 
> 
> I chose Callum because it seemed to fit him I suppose. I thought of Eadrick which means “wealthy defender” which I thought fit Rumpelstiltskin great. Then I thought of Alistair, which is Scottish and also means “defender.” I just didn’t like the sound of it. So Callum means “dove,” and is Scottish, but I think it fits him just as well.
> 
> And so ends the chapter of mildly lengthy exposition and my assumption that Scotts and Australians—neither of which are actually Scottish or Australian, but for our purposes fairytale characters—both have English tea (Because everyone with an accent does, right?).


End file.
